


Noite (Night)

by aguantare



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Closeted Character, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:38:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: If this were someone—anyone—else, Philippe would stop, pull back, make sure this was okay. But it’s not. So he doesn’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The '?' will become clear by the end. I've been struggling mightily with my writing lately, so this is my latest attempt to get back in the groove. Feedback is <3\. 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

It’s just past midnight when the bed dips behind him, followed by a deep breath and a light hand on his shoulder.

Philippe wonders what it says about him that, in all the times they’ve done this, never once has it occurred to him to throw his companion out, to tell him to fuck off and not come back. 

He shifts a little, a wordless response to the wordless request. 

“Close your eyes,” that familiar voice tells him, as if it’ll give him some sort of plausible deniability.

Philippe obeys anyways before rolling onto his back. After all this isn’t about him.

Fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers, sliding them down. He cants his hips up, lets himself be stripped bare. A palm grasps at the inside of one knee, and he spreads his legs willingly, opening readily to a body that does things with a football that Philippe can only dream of, but holds a heart that wants something it can’t have. 

Mouth on his cock now, taking him in with agonizing slowness. He arches into that hot, wet pull, turning his face into his arm to stifle a moan, and his companion lets him twist and buck for a few seconds, thrusting erratically into his mouth before sliding hands up to Philippe’s hips and holding him in place. 

Lips and tongue drag down the length of his cock, then all the way back up, until he’s nudging against the back of his companion’s throat and he can feel the muscles there working against the invasion. If this were someone—anyone—else, Philippe would stop, pull back, make sure this was okay.

But it’s not. So he doesn’t. 

Minutes pass—he doesn’t know how many. But he’s hard. Hard enough, anyways. His companion withdraws, straddles Philippe’s hips. Even with his eyes closed, Philippe can tell it’s almost businesslike, the way he arranges himself. Philippe feels one hand on his cock, the other braced on his chest, and then he’s shoving his head back, open-mouthed and soundless as he sinks into that tight, almost suffocating heat. Even if he wanted to open his eyes now, he doesn’t think he could.

A ghost of a moan reaches his ears. The body above him shifts, bears down until he’s fully seated inside, and a gasp, barely audible, matches the curl of Philippe’s fist in the sheets. 

For a few moments, everything is still. Philippe is tempted, not for the first time, to reach out and touch the hand that’s still braced on his chest, the face that he can sense above him. 

The heavy, heated, (neglected) erection he can feel between their bodies. 

But that was never asked for. In fact that was expressly disallowed. 

Philippe understood then and understands now, the need to draw lines, maintain barriers, compartmentalize every part of this. Knows that, even though his companion has asked for this, wants it even, he won’t—can’t—embrace it the way people outside their profession do. Surmises that there is more going on here than he knows, or might ever know. 

Eventually his companion starts to move, rides Philippe until he’s wound so tight, drawn so close to the edge that it’s all he can do to stay quiet. 

Fingers at his mouth, pushing past his lips. 

It’s enough. 

As he comes back down, something like a sigh filters through the air, and Philippe feels the weight lift off him. He registers movement around him and elsewhere in the room. Then there’s the sound of the door opening and closing. 

He opens his eyes. The lamp by the window is switched on. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. The shower’s running in the bathroom, and he knows when he goes in, it’ll be steaming hot, exactly the way he likes it. 

Just like he knows that tomorrow, at training, Neymar will come and stand next to him at a water break, arm brushing against Philippe’s. And Philippe will glance over at him, and Neymar will give him a tiny half-smile that might be apology or gratitude, or maybe both. And then Neymar’s expression will shutter, morph seamlessly into a conspiratorial grin, and he’ll dump the rest of his water bottle down the back of Marcelo’s shirt and point at Philippe when the Real Madrid man whips around, and it’ll be as if the night before simply didn’t happen. 

Philippe’s sort of lost track of how long it’s been since that first night that Neymar came back to their hotel room after some meaningless friendly somewhere in South America with a contraband bottle of some local liquor. He started drinking, and soon the words were tumbling out of him, words like “normal” and “want” and “physical” and “sinful” and “need” and “career” and “scared.” 

And eventually: “Will you?” And: “I just need.” And: “Please.”

Giving, it’s what Philippe does. A room to stay in. A ride to training. A game-winning assist.

Himself. 

And he’s never been good at saying no. Even to Neymar. Especially to Neymar. 

He stares at the ceiling for a few more minutes, then gets up to go shower.


End file.
